Stay
by memelovescaps
Summary: It's the first night after Sherlock Holmes' return. John Watson, who has been struggling for three years, can't sleep now that he knows that Sherlock's downstairs, and apparently Sherlock can't sleep either. Light slash John/Sherlock.


**Helloooooo! Here I come back with another JohnLock post-Reichenbach fic! It's a short fic exploring Sherlock and John's feelings, I hope you like it.**

**Title:** Stay

**Author:** Myself (Meme)

**Disclaimer:** The characters don't belong to me, they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC, I only enjoy writing about them.

**Warning: **English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes that this fic may have (although it's been corrected).

Special thanks to **Judy**, who has corrected this fic for me. A thousand thanks, sweetie!

Without further delay, here it is! Enjoy!

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><p><strong>STAY<strong>

It was 3am and John Watson couldn't sleep.

There had been many nights in which he hadn't been able to sleep in the past three years, but that was because the memory of Sherlock falling from St. Barts and his his blood-covered face had chased him throughout the night, filling his sleep with nightmares and creating a feeling of emptiness in John's life. Because Sherlock Holmes was John's life, and that day he had lost it.

But tonight was different. Tonight he knew that Sherlock Holmes was in his bedroom downstairs. His mind was awake, thinking and reflecting on how things were going to be from now on. It was so incredible, so _freaking_ unbelievable, that he didn't fully believe it. He didn't fully realize that the next morning he would wake up and he would probably find Sherlock in the kitchen, preparing tea for the both of them and trying to toast bread for John, failing in the attempt. He couldn't believe that he would be again on the streets, chasing criminals and aiding Sherlock in completing the puzzles. He couldn't believe there would be tea every morning and the melody of the violin at ungodly hours. He couldn't believe the emptiness that Sherlock's fake death had left would not be there anymore. Or could he?

He got up from bed and put his shoes on, starting to walk with silent steps. He opened his bedroom door and went downstairs, slowly and taking care not to make any noise by the creaking of the stairs. When he arrived at the living room he walked in and looked around. Everything was exactly as he had left it, as it had been for more than three years, as Sherlock had had it before leaving. The sofa with the cushions, the desk with both laptops half hidden under thousands of sheets of papers, magazines and newspapers, his armchair, Sherlock's armchair, the fireplace with the skull on its ledge, the knife… he sighed with a soft smile on his lips, when he heard a noise.

He turned, his eyes fixed upon Sherlock's bedroom door. He paid attention, trying to hear that noise again, until a few seconds later, he heard it. They were step noises. Sherlock was awake and he was walking in his bedroom. With a sigh, thinking that Sherlock should be sleeping but still not surprised by the detective being awake when he shouldn't, he took a few steps towards the door, and quietly opened it.

Sherlock, who was staring at the window, turned when he heard the door opening.

"John" said in a quiet, inquiring voice.

"I knew you would be awake" answered John, smiling softly from the threshold.

"Couldn't sleep" responded Sherlock, and turned again to stare at the window.

John took the few steps that were separating them, until he was behind the detective. Sherlock was there, _really_ there. John could hold out his arm and actually touch Sherlock's dressing gown, he could move his hand up and touch his dark, curly, rebel hair, entwining his fingers in it; he could hear Sherlock's breathing, that boring action that for John meant a whole world. Sherlock was there, alive, at home.

And Sherlock was still staring at the window, watching as cars passed by, but not really paying them any attention. He could feel John's presence behind him, his heart beating faster; "_chemistry"_ he thought. Call it chemistry, call it simply that his body was reacting to John's presence, and not only physically. He felt his heart complete again, realizing that for three years there had been a hole in it, which had made him feel things he hadn't felt before: sadness, heartbreak, regret, pain. John had made him _feel_, in the wide sense of the word, as no one else had done before. Because John Watson was the only one.

The doctor sighed before taking one more step with his arms stretched, and put them around his waist. Sherlock tensed for a moment, unaccustomed to touch after such a long time, but soon his mouth emitted a relaxed sigh and his lips curved in a soft smile, though John didn't see it.

"Neither did I" whispered John, his voice sounding slightly distorted by the dressing gown. Sherlock placed his hand on John's, caressing them fondly, in a manner that no one would ever expect from him. But John did. John knew.

No one knew how long they stood in that position, until John's arms stopped hugging Sherlock, which made the detective turn around. John moved away from Sherlock, left the room and went to the living room, leaving the door opened, because he knew that Sherlock would follow him shortly after. His lips curved into a smile when he heard thatSherlock was there as well, approaching him. John was not the one always following Sherlock and waiting for him to lead, because Sherlock also left space for John to guide him. It was a matter of trust, of a bond much more powerful than anything else, a bond which tied them in a way that nothing else could. Friendship perhaps? Love? The truth is that they didn't care about the label; they only knew it was there, uniting them. Making them become one.

Sherlock approached John, slowly, until he was next to him. He stared, a smile on his lips, andJohn looked up to his eyes. They were glowing, an incandescent flame burning inside, illuminating every detail, bringing all sets of colour to his grey and dead life. Sherlock's hand went to John's face, his fingertips stroking John's cheeks.

"Stay" said Sherlock in a whisper. And John needed no more, because he knew.

Sherlock might not be brilliant when it came to emotions, not because he didn't have any, but because he didn't know how to handle them. He didn't understand the process of having to deal with them; neither did he know how to act when he knew that his actions were guided by feelings, not by any rational thought. Despite all this, John knew that Sherlock also needed to acknowledge he was there, as much as himself. Sherlock needed to know that John was by his side; that they were together once again, that the three years of distance, pain, grieve on his side, hiding and danger were over. That John had been waiting for him all along, to come back home.

John didn't say a word, he simply approached his face to Sherlock**'s**, fondling with his nose, his neck and feeling his hair tickling his forehead. He then took Sherlock's hand and went to the sofa, taking the detective with him. John sat on the sofa, and Sherlock lay down next to him, placing his head over John's legs. John took a blanket and put it over the detective, starting to caress his hair.

"Sleep" whispered John, sighing. Then his voice sounded less audible, as if he were talking to himself "I will always be here."

Sherlock, however, heard it. And smiled in his dream. Yes, John would always stay. And he would always come back home.

**THE END**

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><p><strong>So that's it! I hope you liked it, please leave any comments, either good or bad, I'd really love to hear your thoughts regarding this fic. Thanks for reading and I will see you around! :) <strong>

**Much love, jam and jumpers! **

**Meme**


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